


Phantasmagoria

by Please_Tommy_Please



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Blood, But mostly angst, Episode: s03e14 More Bad Than Good, Episode: s03e17 Silverfinger, Gen, Hallucinations, Hurt Stiles, Just a little thing I had to do because I love Sterek, Nogitsune, Oops, Running, Scared Stiles, Season/Series 03, Set between More Bad Than Good and Silverfinger, Stiles-centric, There is one little Sterek moment in here, There's kind of a lot of blood, Worried Scott McCall, bear traps, but you can ignore it, it's not important, season 3b, stiles is losing his mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 17:30:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6385681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Please_Tommy_Please/pseuds/Please_Tommy_Please
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phantasmagoria (noun) - A sequence of real or imaginary images like those seen in a dream; hallucination; delirium.</p><p>Stiles gets hit foot caught in one of the bear traps while the Cross-Country Team is running the trail. But maybe that isn't the biggest problem...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantasmagoria

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. This was supposed to be shameless Hurt!Stiles because I love hurting my baby (that sounds awful, I'm so sorry). But it escalated from there.
> 
> I only just finished 3B, so uh. Yeah. Heh. Oh, there's a LOT of italics in here so...

 

“Parrish, later today, me and you are going out to the woods. I’m not so sure we got all those bear traps, and Mr. Tate wasn’t much help.”

“Okay, Sheriff,” Deputy Parrish agrees. He readjusts a few papers on his desk with the tips of his fingers, pausing for a moment. When he looks up, he’s frowning. “Didn’t we give permission for Mr. Finstock to let his Cross-Country Team use the woods for their running course?”

Stilinski nods. “We had him tell the kids to be extra careful to stick to the trails. We know those are safe, at least.”

* * *

“Really, Isaac? It’s literally, like, seventy degrees out, and we’re _running_. Dude, _what_ is with the scarf?”

The Beta wolf’s lips curve into a smirk. Stiles rolls his eyes, crouching down to tighten the laces on his shoes. “Seriously, though. What, are you trying to look cooler or something? Sorry to break it to you, buddy, but-”

The shrill ring of Coach’s whistle slices through the air. Stiles, having been at the very front of the group, nearly gets plowed over when the students start running. He stands quickly, finds his footing, and falls into place next to Danny and Isaac.

Isaac sprints to the front of the group, and cutting past Stiles, Ethan and Aiden run to catch up with him. Clearly, the twins want to race. Stiles barely resists the urge to stick his foot out and trip Ethan (or maybe it’s Aiden) when he bolts forward.

The human glances over at Danny, who, after a few seconds, turns his head to glance at Stiles. They share a look, and Stiles stifles a laugh. He catches a glimpse of a familiar mop of dark hair a few people in front of him, for once running by himself, and he speeds up slightly to run next to his friend. And while Stiles’s t-shirt is starting to get wet beneath his armpits, Scott doesn’t look even the slightest bit tired.

“Oh hey, dude.” Not out of breath, either. Freaking werewolves.

“Not racing like the others, then?” Stiles breathes out, trying to force his gangly legs to take longer strides, to fall into some sort of rhythm. The pair take a left turn, and Scott shakes his head.

“Nah. Besides, this pace is nice enough.” Stiles raises both eyebrows, huffing out a breath, and glances over his shoulder. The rest of the group is steadily falling behind.

“Pace...nice... _enough_?” Stiles pants, hand holding over the growing stitch in his side. “Freaking... _sprinting_.”

Scott grins over at him, taking an easy right curve that Stiles probably would have missed if he hadn’t seen Scott start turning. Regardless, Stiles almost falls on his face.

“Dude, you don’t _have_ to keep up with me,” Scott points out easily. Stiles scowls. His friend’s eyes light up mischievously. Scott doesn’t even gradually slow down, just stops all at once. On instinct, Stiles tries to do the same, tripping over his feet and falling. The only thing that keeps his face from meeting the dirt is Scott’s hand gripping his arm. Stiles stands upright, shrugs his friend’s hand away.

“Hey, there’s this shortcut, right through here. See, ‘cause the trail just keeps curving in, like, a big U-turn? If we cut through the woods here, we can probably catch up with Isaac and the twins. And we won’t have to run as much,” Scott says, pointing to the woods to their left. “And we’re far enough ahead of everyone that they won’t see us. They’re all still back around the last turn.”

The suggestion in his voice is clear, and Stiles only hesitates for a moment. After all, if they get caught, he can blame it on Scott, since it is his idea. Stiles wipes the back of his right hand over his forehead, wrinkling his nose. He dries his hand on his grey sweatpants.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees. Scott goes first, stepping off the worn-down path and jogging into the trees. Stiles scrambles to catch up, falling into step left of the werewolf.

“Jeez, it’s kinda hot out here,” the wolf muses. Stiles snorts.

“Yeah, no sh-”

Stiles’s words cut off with a pained cry, and he doesn’t stop in time (momentum’s a fucking _bitch_ ), body jerking backwards sharply. He stumbles, hoping on his right foot, before he falls back onto his ass, cursing shrilly. Scott skids to a halt ahead of him, whirling around with eyes wide.

“Stiles! Are you...” he trails off, staring down at his friend’s left foot. Stiles’s eyes are already there, gaping dazedly at the steel-jawed trap clamping into his ankle. Blood flows freely down his foot, soaking his sock and already squishing in the bottom of his sneaker.

“Scott!” Stiles barks (which is ironic, because that’s usually Derek’s specialty). The True Alpha snaps back into reality, dropping down to his knees next to his friend.

“Oh my God! Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Stiles!” he whines, flustered. The guilty, hurt look in his puppy eyes is heartbreaking. Stiles shakes his head.

“Not your fault. Wasn’t looking where I was going,” he says through gritted teeth. “Can you get this thing off of me?”

Stiles’s heart jolts at Scott’s too long hesitation. “...I-I don’t know. What if it makes it worse? I don’t want you to lose your foot or something, Stiles.”

_Lose my foot? Is it that bad? It can’t be tha- holy **fuck** , yeah it’s that bad. Okay. Ow._

“Well can you do _something_?” His voice doesn’t squeak. It doesn’t. Shut up.

“I’m not.... What do you want me to _do_?” Scott looks about as terrified as Stiles feels. He shifts slightly, leaning forward to look at his leg. The teeth of the trap are buried pretty deep into his leg, biting just above his left ankle. He experimentally moves his foot.

“OW- MY _GOD_!” he wails, clamping his hands down on the area. His shin feels like it’s on fire. Fresh blood pours from the wound, covering Stiles’s hands. His light grey sweats are torn and stained red. His favorite sweatpants. _Stupid freaking jerk, trying to kill a stupid freaking coyote that’s actually his stupid **freaking** daughter!_

“Well don’t move it!” Scott snaps. He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Who the hell do I even call?”

“Ghostbusters,” Stiles mumbles under his breath. Scott glowers at him. Stiles smiles weakly.

“I’m calling your dad.”

“What, no!” Stiles protests, throwing his bloody hands out as if to convey his point. Pain flares, but he shoves it down. “You can’t call my dad!”

“It’s not like you can hide it from him, Stiles!” Scott growls, red eyes gleaming. “Look at how much blood you’re losing! At least if I call your dad, he can call my mom, and they’ll be ready for you at the hospital!”

Fair point. Very fair point. Scott rarely uses common sense, but when he does, it’s when Stiles would rather he didn’t.

“...Fine,” he grumbles. Scott takes the time to go into his ‘contacts’ and call the number listed under the name ‘ _Stiles’s Dad_ ’, rather than typing in ‘9-1-1’. He walks a few paces away. Stiles isn’t quite sure why.

“Sheriff, it’s Scott. Listen, it's important. Stiles got his leg stuck in one of those bear traps.” Stiles doesn’t even have to strain to hear the shouted reply.

_“What! How? There aren’t any on the trails. Is he okay?”_

“Well, um... we took a shortcut,” Scott explains feebly.

 _“...I want the entire story later,”_ his dad growls through the line. _“Where are you_ exactly _?”_

“I, uh, follow the trail in, take the first left, the next right, then before the next turn, cut off into the woods. We aren’t that far in, I don’t think,” Scott rambles. Stiles tunes out the rest of the conversation in favor of tinkering with the device currently fastened around his ankle.

He leans forward, wincing as the steel cuts deeper, and places his hands on either side of his leg. He pulls lightly on the clenched jaws, a halfhearted attempt to separate them. Sticky and slick with blood, his right hand slips, cutting open on the sharp teeth of the trap. He shrieks in pain, tugging his hands back away from the trap. Scott snaps his head over to him so fast, Stiles worries about whiplash.

His gaze lands on his friend’s bleeding hand, which he’s pressing into his shirt, and the wolf’s eyes narrow to slits.

“Stiles, stop messing with it!” he snarls, stomping back over to his friend. Fortunately, he seems to have already ended the call.

“Well sorry, Scott, but I don’t exactly like my foot being stuck in a _freaking_ bear trap, okay!” he snaps in reply.

“Scott? Stiles?”

“Over here, Isaac!” Stiles calls, watching as three familiar figures crash through the brush towards them. Scott looks somewhat relieved.

 _Probably because he doesn't have to deal with me on his own anymore._ Stiles smirks lightly at the thought. The smirk is replaced with a wince when he glances down at his hand. His palm is cut open, blood pouring out of the injury. Ouch.

“What happened?” asks a twin.

“We could smell blood. A lot of it,” informs the other. Stiles gestures halfheartedly (with his sliced hand, no less) towards his injured leg. Isaac growls, eyes narrowing and gold flashing.

“God, Stiles,” he shakes his head. He unwraps the scarf from around his neck, pulling it tightly around his hand. Isaac glances at Stiles’s bloody mess of a leg.

“Thanks, man,” Stiles says, then nods towards his foot. “What about that?”

One of the twins speaks up before Isaac can. “Well, the teeth of the trap are probably the only thing keeping you from bleeding out at the moment, so maybe we shouldn’t mess with it.”

“But if we get it off of him,” the second argues, “we can stop the blood flow with one of our shirts or something. That’ll probably work better than steel.”

“What if he bleeds out anyway?” Scott asks fretfully.

“If we take it off, he could lose his foot. You realize that, right Aiden?” says Twin Number One (Ethan, apparently).  _Of course the twins are going to try to help. If they want to be a part of Scott's Pack, helping Stiles keep his foot is definitely going to make a good impression._

“We _could_ just cut his leg off.”

Stiles grits his teeth and groans, feels the color drain from his face at the morbid suggestion. “Not helping, Isaac.”

“Just joking,” he informs. His nose scrunches up, eyes narrowing in concern. “God, you _reek_ of blood, Stiles. Seriously, that much blood _can’t_ be healthy.”

“Plus, look, his leg’s still bleeding anyway,” Aiden points out. Stiles spares a look. He isn’t wrong. Blood oozes sluggishly out of the deep gashes. “If we take the trap off-”

“-it’ll bleed even worse,” Ethan replies firmly. Scott nods determinedly.

“It stays on,” he agrees. “At least until paramedics get here.”

“You know, you _could_ always give him the Bite,” Isaac says suddenly, looking pointedly at Scott.

“No, absolutely not,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “Not unless I’m dying. And, lookie, I’m not dying. Not yet. So no. _That’s_ our last resort; Plan Z.”

A smile tugs at Scott’s lips. “You heard him.”

Isaac shifts his weight to his right leg, crossing his left over his right ankle, arms folding across his chest. “Can we at least call Derek, then? He’ll want to know one of his pack members is hurt. I know he isn’t an Alpha anymore, but he’s still the leader of the pack, Scott, and you know it.”

Scott grumbles a low reply, one that Stiles can’t quite hear, and he nods reluctantly. “Fine, call Derek. But Coach and everyone else is gonna wonder where we all went.”

“Want us to go tell him?” Aiden asks.

“That’d be great,” Scott agrees. He looks tired. The twins turn around and take off in the opposite direction, out of sight within a few seconds.

‘It’s ringing,’ Isaac mouths. Stiles tugs on his pant leg. The Beta looks down, raising his eyebrows.

‘Put it on speaker,’ he mouths back. Isaac nods, pulling his phone away from his ear, pressing a button on the screen, and holds it out in his palm.

 _“It’s Derek.”_ Stiles swallows back a chortle.

“Yeah, Derek, it’s me, Isaac. Listen, _Stiles_ here got himself in...well, a bit of trouble.”

_“Stiles, what did you do?”_

_Oh, apparently Derek knows he’s on speaker._ “Well, ‘O Alpha, My Alpha, I _miiiight_ have maybe stepped in one of the bear traps out in the woods, and I _miiiight_ be slowly bleeding to death.”

Derek growls and sighs through the phone, but it sounds more exasperated than annoyed. _“Okay, well why’d you call me?”_

“Hurtful...”

“I figured you’d want to know,” Isaac replies.

_“How bad does it look?”_

“They keep saying I’m gonna lose my foot, but-”

_“Stiles?”_

“Yeah?”

_“Shut up. Isaac, how bad does it look?”_

Stiles scowls at the cell phone, grumbling to himself. He’s suffering here, and Derek’s just being his usual Sourwolf self. Typical.

“Pretty bad,” Isaac says honestly, crouching down to peer at Stiles’s injury. “That’s why we haven’t tried prying it off yet. We don’t know how bad it is, and we don’t want to make it worse.”

_“Is it still bleeding?”_

“It’s slowing down, but yeah, it’s still bleeding...”

“. _..iiiiles_.”  Stiles twists his upper body around, keeping his leg still as possible, peering through the trees.

“What? Wha...” Stiles trails off, mouth agape as the figure treads towards him. Is he dreaming again? Did he pass out? He closes his eyes and shakes his head. The action leaves him dizzy, but the human-shaped character limping towards him doesn’t go away. Stiles attempts to look down, to count his fingers, but he cannot seem to pull his gaze away.

“Stiiiiles,” it hisses. The figure is completely wrapped in once-white-but-now-slightly-yellow gauze, a leather jacket pulled over its skinny frame. The only place not swathed in bandages is the mouth, which reveals an abundance of needle-sharp teeth.

“Who are you?” he asks. It limps closer.

“Poor people have it, wealthy people need it. If you eat it, you die. What is it?” it wheezes. Stiles doesn’t know what compels him to answer, but his voice shakes when he does.

“N-nothing,” he says meekly, uninjured hand gripping a fistful of dead leaves and dirt. The figure croaks out a laugh.

“What belongs to you but is used more by others?”

“Your name,” Stiles answers, voice quavering. He's relieved, and he's terrified; relieved because he's heard these riddles before, and scared because _what if it asks one I can't answer?_ The figure’s mouth curls up into a grin. It’s twisted, evil. Terrifying. Stiles shifts away from it, whimpering at the blaze of pain it sends up his leg. He doesn’t look away from the cloth-covered figure.

“If I have it, I don’t share it. If I share it, I don’t have it. What is it?” the form rasps. It’s closer now, right in front of Stiles, and it crouches down.

“What is it?” it repeats in a growl. Trembling, Stiles scoots back further. A hand shoots out at inhuman speed, grasping the front of his t-shirt and yanking him forward. A cry of pain escapes his lips as the action pulls on his leg.

He tilts his head down, shakily counting his fingers. _One, two, three, four, five..._

“If I have it, I don’t share it! If I share it, I don’t have it! What is it!” it snarls.

 _You’re probably just dreaming, Stiles. You’re just dreaming._ “Let me out. Let me out!”

“WHAT IS IT!” _S-six, seven, eight..._ “WHAT IS IT!”

“LET ME OUT!” _Nine.... Ten._

“...A secret.”

_It’s real._

“Stiles! Stiles, hey!” Stiles blinks, eyes drifting over to Scott. He looks horrified. “What the hell, man?” There’s no heat behind the words.

“I-I don’t...” Stiles looks past his friend’s body, through the trees, but he sees nothing but the woods. But it was _real_.... Stiles snaps his gaze down, raking his eyes over his hands. Ten fingers. _This_ is real. But so was...

“Hold still!” Isaac orders. Stiles turns back around to face the steel trap and the Beta, who’s now shirtless. Said piece of clothing is being held down against his leg, staunching the fresh flow of blood. The result of Stiles moving around to get away from... that _thing_.

“Hurts,” Stiles whimpers in weak protest, reaching over to push Isaac’s hands off of him. The werewolf just swats his hands away, the hit landing on his injured hand. It doesn’t hurt, though, because Isaac’s scarf seems to make a pretty good cushion.

“ _Stiiiiles_...”

“Leave me alone,” he mutters lowly, eyes darting around the area to find the figure. Isaac looks up from his work, staring incredulously. _Let me out of this. Please let me out_. “Stiles, are you okay?” Scott asks.

“I think he’s delirious,” Isaac hisses under his breath. Scott glares at the werewolf.

“M’fine. Just kinda...tired.” He knows it’s blood loss. Scott audibly starts panicking.

 “H-hey, keep your eyes open, man. Your dad and Derek are gonna be here soon, and the twins are already on there way back with Coach.”

“Derek’s comin’? Why?” he frowns, blinking rapidly in an attempt to rid his vision of the blur. If his voice is slurring, Scott doesn’t mention it. If anything, Scott seems desperate to keep him talking.

“Yeah, man,” he says. “You kept talking to yourself, and he freaked out when you started yelling.”

“T...talking t’myself?”

“Didn’t make any sense, either,” Isaac pipes up. “‘Nothing’, ‘your name’, and ‘a secret’. You kept screaming ‘let me out’. Made no sense.”

“Oh.”

“Stiiiiles...” His eyes snap around the trees, lingering on each one, as if the bandaged figure is hiding behind one of them.

“Stiles, dude, what are you looking for?”

“ _Let me in, Stiiiles. Let me in.._.”

“Wha-what?” he whispers. His eyesight unfocuses, leaves and trees and grass moulding together. He blinks repeatedly, squinting.

“Stiles?” Scott asks, frowning in concern. Stiles looks at his friend, blinks languidly.

“Scott, d’you hear...”

“ _Don’t share me, Stiiiles. I’m your secret. Don’t share me, or we’re going to **kill** him! We'll kill him! Let me **in** , Stiiiiles!_”

“I...I don’ feel v’ry good, Scotty,” he slurs, body listing backwards. Scott holds him upright. “M’leg kinda hurts.”

“Fuck. Isaac, go....” Stiles finds himself ignoring the rest. Darkness softens the edges of his clouded vision, and Stiles closes his eyes to blink. He can’t seem to wrench them back open after that, body tilting backwards. Scott’s words haze and distort, sections missing at a time. Other voices, most of them familiar, weave into his ears, sound muted and indistinct.

“What happened!” _It's really not that hard to figure out, Coach_ _._

“....we can’t just....” _What can’t we do, Isaac?_

“Oh my God...” _The new Deputy?_

“...so much blood....” _Who...? Kira, maybe?_

“...e careful with him....” _Thanks, Scotty._

“...can’t give up yet, kid. Just hold on.” _Dad..._

“...ake up, Stiles. _Please_ wake up....” _Derek?_

But there’s one voice that, although not louder, seems to project above the rest.

“ _Let me in, Stiiiles. Let me in..._ ”


End file.
